


i wish that you were here by my side

by starlike (orphan_account)



Series: you're something to remember [1]
Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: 2012, Angst, M/M, Mayday Parade, Songfic, i'm crying why did i do this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 17:57:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4755764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/starlike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>“He can try to drown the memories of slammed doors and biting words in whatever cheap booze he has sitting next to his bed – it's not like he can taste it, anyways, he can't feel anything, he's not real –  but none of it works, he's still haunted in his dreams, he can't find solace anywhere.” </em> </p><p>a songfic based off of Everything’s An Illusion by Mayday Parade set in 2012.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i wish that you were here by my side

**Author's Note:**

> i made a promise to myself literally less than twelve hours ago that i would write something other than angst, what am i doing with my life. anyways, i recommend that you listen to the Everything’s An Illusion cover by I, Mona (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JUD7NG85Ook) before/while reading this bc that’s what brought this fic to life and if it hadn’t come on at midnight i wouldn’t have impulsively wrote this, woo. p.s i’ve never written mcd before soz if it sucks?

Dan remembers, and he'd give anything to forget.

  
  
He can try to drown the memories of slammed doors and biting words in whatever cheap booze he has sitting next to his bed – it's not like he can taste it, anyways, he can't feel anything, he's not real – but none of it _works_ , he's still haunted in his dreams, he can't find solace anywhere.

  
  
Dan remembers how he yelled and took out his terrified confusion on the only person that ever actually gave a shit, and how Phil would just sit there and take it, never once rising to the bait no matter how much he wanted him to _fight back, do something, for fuck's sake, Phil!_ He remembers how sometimes, his mask would crack, a tear would fall, and the weary look of absolute defeat in his eyes would be enough to reduce Dan to sobs and apologies whispered between bedsheets, but it was never enough, it wouldn't stick, didn't last.

  
  
He remembers the last time he saw him, the last time he talked to him, the last thing he said to him. They'd been arguing about some mundane, stupid little thing, and it hadn't worked itself up to a one-sided shouting match quite yet but it was getting there when Phil grabbed his keys off the hook by the door and, when pulling on a hoodie, had said "I'm going for a walk", like it wasn't nearly midnight and pouring down raining outside. He chose not to voice his concerns and asked instead, "staying out long?"

  
  
Phil had stopped with half his body out the door, just standing there for what felt like forever before turning around, meeting Dan's eyes and asking, "what do you care?"

  
  
He'd closed the door hard enough to shake the floor and if he tried hard enough he could still feel the vibrations.

  
  
He remembers the call – _Hello, is this Daniel Howell? We have a Phil Lester in A &E at St. Thomas' hospital, and you're his emergency contact. We need you to come down immediately_ – and the taxi ride's a blur of bouncing knees and chewed-down. bloody fingernails.

  
  
The doctor's words were blunt while not unkind, but if asked he can really only recall bits and pieces of the conversation, like _stab wound_ , _massive_ _blood loss_ , _too late_ , and _nothing we could do_. They echo around in his head during the few seconds of silence between all of the songs he's been blasting because the flat's too quiet and he needs something to occupy the empty space.

 

He doesn't know how he got home or how long he'd been sitting on the floor, but it must've been ages because when he pulled himself up on shaky legs the sun was rising and his muscles ached.

 

He's a coward, really, so he called Phil's brother instead of his parents, told him everything that he knew in an emotionless voice and expected him to pass the news along because he just _couldn't_.

 

He remembers locking himself in his bedroom and screwing his eyes shut, pulling his duvet over his head and refusing to look anywhere because no matter where his eyes landed he was there, he's everywhere, in the plate with some syrup still on it from where he had waffles that morning and forgot to wash up, in his socks left on the floor of the lounge and a pair of his shoes not far behind them, in the closed bedroom door and the bed that he'd never sleep in again, the clothes in the wardrobe that would never be worn.

 

He doesn't do anything. He doesn't tweet, or make a video, or a post. There's a #RIPPhil hashtag that's trending for days after his obituary is published and Dan can't help but think that #RIPDan should be accompanying it because it feels like he's died with him.

 

He goes to the funeral in one of Phil's hoodies and the only nice, clean pair of skinny jeans he has. He can't bring himself to go to the viewing because it'd look like he was just napping in his casket, waiting to wake up and chastise Dan for letting him sleep in so long and the thought alone has Dan choking up.

 

The graveyard was full of old classmates and distant relatives that he'd never met, and he spends the entire time avoiding Mrs. Lester because he knows that if she saw him she'd _know_ , know how horrible he was to her son and how this was _all his fault_ that her baby had gone too soon _._

 

Because it was. It was his fault that his best friend stormed out of the house so late and got mugged, it was his fault that they were always fighting, his fault for not wanting to come out or define whateverthefuck their relationship was – he was to blame for everything.

 

That's why he was here, in Phil's bed, surrounded by warmth and the scent that he'd taken for granted, that will fade eventually, talking to the air or a God he didn't believe in, begging for forgiveness that he'd never be granted, telling the otherwise empty room how he'd change everything if he had a second chance as he wept.

 

Once he's tired himself out and run out of tears, he falls asleep with a pounding head, an aching heart and a word falling softly from his lips.

 

“Goodnight.”

**Author's Note:**

> come hang out w/ me on tumblr? http://plant-hoe-lester.tumblr.com


End file.
